


The Mortals Who Meddle

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [36]
Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 22:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Hisana's Funeral, several surprises abound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mortals Who Meddle

 

 _So it begins_.

Purposeful is her pen. Careful and flowing are her thoughts.

Some men deal death with their hands. Others kill by decree.

Hisana has never had any great love of the blade, instead preferring the bristle.

 _No matter_.

Three surnames fill the page. The inky characters sprawl across the white expanse of the parchment. So stark. So final. So definite.

It isn't as gory as a death by the iron, she thinks. There is not a drop of blood to be seen, but that does not mean that blood will be spared. Indeed, where ideals collide, blood will divide, like unseen fault lines, and Hisana has no doubt the old guards will emerge and their banners will fall in predictable formations.

The Four Houses will stand together. The higher houses will also follow their affiliated houses. The schism will occur among the lower houses. It always does.

She expects no less than ten exiled families after the dust settles. The white city will soon become foreign ground to those members, like a light receding into the darkness. They will be without home, city, or occupation, cast deep into the lungs of the Rukon Districts.

Yet, as harrowing Hisana knows this will be for those houses, she cannot spare an ounce of contrition as she rolls the paper and neatly tucks it into an envelope.

A stamp of red wax seals her own personal justice.

She inhales a deep breath and closes her eyes.

Oh, how things have changed.

Years ago, she would have rushed to her husband, wounded and self-lacerating. He was her rock, her anchor, her only tether. If not for a stroke of luck, she would have dissolved shortly before reuniting with Rukia. Indeed, she was prepared for death. Guilt and a perpetual sense of worthlessness ground her down and ate her away.

She was incomplete then, while she was on her deathbed.

Now, she is not an incomplete woman. Her husband keeps her grounded, sure, but her family—from her sister to her children—keeps her fortified. And, instead of a self-pitying, whimpering woman, she stands with resolve and with fire in her eyes.

"Come," she says, summoning her attendant, who reads her mood and takes the envelope. "We have much to do and the morning is breaking."

* * *

"Sit the fuck down, Abarai," Ikkaku barks before kicking a barstool hard with his foot. The skittering of wood against wood elicits a bone-chilling cringe from Renji, but, ever defiant, he stands a whole two seconds before plopping down on the worn, torn cushion of the seat.

He waits another two seconds before breaking the tense silence that has fallen between them.

"What of this new breed of hollow?" Renji asks with arms folded and jaw tight.

Ikkaku shoves a piece of fried fish into his mouth. The fine muscles of his mandible slide under his flesh before locking in rigid tension. Ikkaku is in no mood for trifling questions, an attitude that he advertises loud and clear as he chases his food with a cup of sake and continues eating. It's as if he never heard Renji's question.

 _Predictable_ , Renji grouses inwardly to himself and rolls his eyes. _Of course Ikkaku has not a fucking idea._

Although, who is Renji kidding? Ikkaku has never been the _detail_ guy. He's more of the slice-and-dice-it-'til-it-dies guy. And, really, that's what the Eleventh prides itself on. Leave the thinking to other men. Weaker men. Men who _like_ thinking. Men who _need_ to think.

Renji stretches his neck, running a calloused palm down the aching muscles pulling like taut cables, and pans the bar in a futile effort to find someone who might _like_ to think.

 _Probably need to be somewhere other than a bar_ , he observes on his first pass. _Is there a place where instead of drinks they have . . . ideas . . . or books?_

Renji's eyes rebound much too quick as he scans the open, musky spaces of the tavern. Bile surges up his throat, but he swallows it back, and chases it down with a gulp of sake.

 _Bad idea_.

The room tilts at a 45 degree angle and begins to spin if Renji forgets to blink. So blink he does. Frantically.

"Got something in your eye?" Ikkaku asks, slamming down another drink and signaling for another.

"No," Renji waves his hand in front of his face, willing sobriety to him. It's not happening. Not in the near future. Maybe not even if the _distant_ future if he doesn't stop drinking.

He takes another swig.

Denial is such a beautiful, ugly thing. He's drunk, and the evidence is mounting, but he's flushed the sense right out of his head.

"You going to the funeral?" Ikkaku asks, plucking a crispy piece of fried eel and stuffing it into his mouth. Greedily, he takes another piece, a dusting of panko falls from his lips as he chews. His eyes, however, never lose focus; they pin Renji. Pupils small, intensity unflinching. He's got the Eleventh's death stare down to an _art_. Ikkaku probably doesn't know how to turn it off; it's such a permanent part of his face.

Renji struggles to order his thoughts, and, more importantly, his words. Everything suddenly feels helter-skelter.

"Someone die?" his syllables collide into each other with such force that the question is nearly unrecognizable, which, in hindsight, is probably for the best.

It was a dumb question.

Ikkaku stares at Renji as if he slipped into a foreign tongue. "Did your brain _break_ or something?" he asks before slurping down another piece of eel.

Renji mulls over his last, broken question before asking another, less broken question, "Who died?"

Ikkaku continues to stare at Renji as if he's become temporarily brain dead.

"Lady Kuchiki, you dunce!" And, out of nowhere, Yumichika's voice hits Renji like a slap to the face.

The bedizened Fifth Seat of the Eleventh pulls up a chair on the other side of Ikkaku and orders a drink. The usual, no doubt.

Renji's eyes glaze over. Everything goes fuzzy, and he swears he can hear his circuitry begin to overload. It sounds a whole lot like sizzling, and it smells like burnt flesh.

_Maybe I am having a stroke? Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the end._

(Un)Fortunately for Renji, it isn't.

"What?" Ikkaku snaps, annoyed, between chomps. His razor thin brows arch over his narrowed eyes.

Yumichika smirks.

And, Renji stares blankly.

He's 100 percent sure he's said something, but he doesn't remember what. Given his drinking companions' respective expressions, it must have been inappropriate, or, hell, at the going rate, _incoherent_.

Renji reaches for his cup of sake, only for Yumichika to snatch it from his grasp at the last possible second, which is no small feat for Yumichika, who had to snake his arm in front of Ikkaku to even access Renji's cup.

" _The_ _one married to Captain Kuchiki_ ," Yumichika observes, seemingly confused by Renji's bewildering apathy.

"Lady Hisana?" In a second, stark and stunning, a beam of clarity pierces Renji's mental fog. The impact, however, nearly crushes him, like the radiance before an atomic bomb's aftermath.

 _That cannot be._ He nearly rejects the thought out of convenience. There's no way he's in his right mind. He's clearly _drunk_. Stinking drunk. He's probably just _misheard_ Yumichika.

Yeah. That's probably it.

He hopes.

He prays.

And, yet, if true, it explains so much. Captain Ukitake was at the Kuchiki estate all day today. Both Sentarō and Kiyone seemed awfully guarded about something, too. They spoke to one another in whispers whenever they saw him, and they both shared the same hang-dog expression any time they caught sight of him.

_Even, Rukia._

Hardened Rukia. Tough-talking Rukia. Unbreakable Rukia. That morning, she was none of those things. She was teary-eyed. She resorted to shouting to hide her pain and to slamming doors to obscure her sobs.

"I take it that you had not heard until now." In a rare moment, Yumichika drops his better-than-thou shtick and addresses Renji with a semblance of concern. Genuine concern.

Ikkaku continues eating as if he is not smack dab in the middle of their conversation. He snags a fried piece of ginger root, chews it, and follows it with a draught of sake. He's mindful of his surroundings, of his companions' conversation, but he's clearly out of his depth.

Reality proves to be rather sobering. Renji isn't sure if it's the sudden bolt of adrenaline or if the serotonin and dopamine coursing through his brain has hit a critical low, but, suddenly, the room isn't spinning, and his vision clears.

"What happened?"

There it is. The Question that is on everyone's minds. But, fear seals their lips.

The question hangs like a black hole, sucking up all possibility of meaningful dialogue in the room.

 _Like they know_.

Yumichika and Ikkaku are so far removed from the nobility, it's comical that Renji even bothered to ask. But, he couldn't help himself. The thought is mentally-taxing in its grandness and weight.

"We thought you'd know," Yumichika observes, trying his best to remove any signs of tightness from his voice or mien.

Implication: Rukia is a noble and would've confided in Renji.

Oh, how wrong they are. What they don't know is that Rukia is fiercely protective of the Kuchikis. What happens within the walls of the estate stay within those walls. Even the security of their relationship lacks the protections Rukia requires before she will divulge family dealings.

And, the distance continues to grow.

He has long ignored it. The reins have slipped through his fingers. He feels the length as it grows. He feels it, gnawing at the back of his mind, chewing on his nerves, but he has chosen to ignore it.

First, it was the adoption. Then, it was her position as Vice Captain as the Sixth. Now, it is the gang of four in Karakura town.

Will the obstacles end? Will it ever go back to the days when things were simple, back to when survival was the name of the game? Never before has Renji wished for the past to resurrect its ugly head. How could he have known that the threads of fate would become so terribly intertwined and _tangled_?

Just before the moment could become _more depressing_ , Ikkaku interrupts, clearing food particles from his throat. "Transmission," he murmurs, eying the hell butterfly perched on the pad of his index finger. His eyes are glossy, but keen. Alcohol has surely crept into his wiring, slickening his nerves, corrupting their signals and pulses.

Even though Renji hates to admit it, he knows Ikkaku holds his liquor better than he does. Probably better than anyone else, even better than the soldiers and _captains_ for whom _songs_ have been written to celebrate their drunken exploits.

Ikkaku pats his Zanpakutō before pushing his chair out from the bar. The high-pitched squeal of wood splintering tells Renji and Yumichika that it's time to go.

Mindlessly, they both follow on Ikkaku's heels.

The Third Seat of the Eleventh pushes back the door and plunges without hesitation into the humid night. There is a chill on the air, and it shrouds them, like a wet blanket. Renji doesn't complain, but he doesn't like it, either. Instead, he clenches his jaws, and he sucks his cheeks until they hollow.

It isn't long before they are at the steps of the city square, where they find Vice Captain Matsumoto and Captains Kuchiki and Hitsuguya.

"Not good," Renji grumbles, voice low and quiet.

Yumichika hears his warning and nods his head in agreement. Ikkaku does not appear to give a shit. More captains, more fun.

Renji, however, still maintains some sense of self-preservation, and, even drunk, his heart doesn't particularly rejoice at the prospect of diving headlong into a figurative cement wall.

Captains Kuchiki and Hitsuguya stand stone-faced and ill-humored.

"Are you sure?" Renji hears Captain Hitsuguya's question to Captain Byakuya as they reach the middle of the square. He didn't hear the context, but, something about the looks that the captains were exchanging catches Renji's interest.

_Surely, Captain Hitsuguya must be offering Captain Kuchiki reprieve. There's no way we need to have two captains escort us to the World of the Living. Right?_

Wrong.

Captain Kuchiki's eyes shift to Renji, Ikkaku, and Yumichika, and, if possible, his posture becomes straighter as he turns to address the latecomers. "We have been summoned to perform reconnaissance."

"Yes, there have been unusual spikes in spiritual pressure in Karakura Town," Captain Hitsuguya observes, puffing his chest out and pulling his arms behind his back.

Even though he must strain to look up at his subordinates, Captain Hitsuguya can cut an imposing figure when he is mindful. "Vice Captain Matsumoto and I will take the northern boundary. Third Seat Ikkaku and Fifth Seat Yumichika will be stationed at the eastern border. Captain Kuchiki and Vice Captain Abarai will take the center of the city. Captain Kuchiki will brief Vice Captain Abarai further once we are within the town's parameters."

 _He will?_ Fighting his natural tendencies, Renji forces his gaze to the pebbles lining the street. An inquisition will get him nowhere. It's not as if either Captain Hitsuguya or Captain Kuchiki are particularly good conversationalists.

"Ready?"

* * *

A burlap bag of _toys_ suffices in a pinch Urahara decides as he plops down on a particularly bloated satchel. His left hand holds firm to his cane, and he stares at the three mortal teenagers who have the _audacity_ to meddle in the affairs of the gods.

A wolfish smile slits his lips, and he cocks a brow, amused at his own thoughts. Thoughts that he never reveals.

"Where did Kurosaki go?" Orihime asks, hands clasped over her heart as she speaks. Her eyes glisten with worry, but Urahara can tell that she is trying to put on a brave face.

He humors her. "He is seeking guidance right now."

"Guidance from whom?" This time it's the Quincy. A glinting flash of the boy's spectacles lets slip a nervous habit; the Quincy adjusts his glasses whenever he pursues a hunch.

Urahara's smile slips into a more genuine expression of amusement. Studied amusement.

"If Kurosaki agreed to this, I see no objection," Sado's soft baritone disburses the fog of confusion, bringing clarity to the minds of his companions: If Ichigo has made a choice to train with the others, then they should respect his decision. Ichigo deserves that; he deserves unquestioning fidelity. He has gotten them this far, hasn't he? And, alive, no less!

Both Orihime and the Quincy lower their heads.

Urahara opens his mouth, but, before he chance to utter a sound, the soft rustling of Yoruichi picking herself up from the cardboard box stops him. For a brief moment, his eyes drop to the black feline as she effortlessly leaps from the box and lands without disturbing even a shadow. Her four padded feet move swiftly and silently toward the threshold, as if she is stalking a mouse. She slinks between the slightly ajar door and the wall without a stray motion.

Then, he _feels_ it—the reason for Yoruichi's sudden departure. The air begins to vibrate, like the plucked string of a guitar. At first it is faint, barely noticeable, but, it intensifies with every passing second.

"We should be on our way," the Quincy observes, likely feeling the disturbance as well.

Urahara neither agrees nor protests the Quincy's recommendation. He merely watches as the three human teenagers file out of his candy shop and into the summer night.

"What peril will find them tonight?"

* * *

Byakuya watches the Vice Captain of the Thirteenth with a mixture of curiosity and repulsion.

He thought the spell wouldn't last so _long_ , and, yet, there they are in the middle of some desolate alley while Abarai _purges_ himself.

"You are drunk," Byakuya observes. His voice is too soft for an outright reprimand, but too severe for comfort.

"Spitting drunk," Renji says after the last wave. He catches his weight with an outstretched hand against a nearby wall. He leans hard and fast, so hard that he can feel the prickle of rough brick against his palm. "I bet you have never been spitting drunk," Renji growls, feeling incendiary.

Byakuya lifts his head and observes his subordinate. He senses Renji's offense, but he waits for the inevitable harangue before he confronts it directly.

"Too inelegant for the likes of you, I bet," Renji continues, anger replacing the bile that was spewing out of his mouth only moments before.

In that moment, Renji hates everything about Byakuya Kuchiki. _Everything._ From the noble's dismissive stare, to the above-reproach look on his face. Never a line out of place. Never a hair amiss. His stares and his words are always measured and weighed. And _damn_ his silence. His silence is the worst part, Renji concludes, thoughts whipping wildly in his head.

_Fucking insufferable nothingness._

Byakuya does not disappoint. When, Renji's eyes flick up to catch a glimpse of the captain, Byakuya stands ramrod straight with features still and inscrutable.

 _And not a_ _goddamn word to spare a beggar_.

"Maybe you should try it sometime," Renji growls, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and straightening.

"You assume too much," Byakuya murmurs before turning his back to Renji.

Byakuya does not mean for his words to sound as dismissive as they seem, and he turns to give the vice captain a moment to comport himself, but his execution fails, as it is prone to doing.

Before Renji's hair trigger temper gets the better of him, Byakuya gives his subordinate a sidelong glance, which stops Renji's impending outburst.

_Weariness._

Renji knows that look.

In one of those rare, unguarded moments, Captain Kuchiki's shield falls, and, instead of cold, calculating confidence, there is only weariness in his stare, the sprawling kind that reaches out to touch the horizon.

Then, Renji _remembers_ his conversation with Yumichika and Ikkaku at the bar.

_Lady Hisana._

How could he have been so fucking insensitive? In his drunken state, his baser instincts told him to lash out. Part of him, justly or not, blames Byakuya for the tension between him and Rukia. Part of him wants to be the one that looks after Rukia, like before. Before nobles and before Shinigami; before everything got so damn complicated.

What a load of good wishing and hoping was doing him now.

Renji lowers his head, mentally kicking himself for his insubordination.

"We have to collect the mortal girl," Byakuya's voice pierces the thick shadows, gently reminding Renji that they are there for a _reason_.

"Wh—?!" Renji's eyes widen, and, reflexively, he lurches forward. It's the first he's heard of collecting mortal girls. "Huh?" he sputters, sounding foolish, which neatly matches how he has been acting, like a fool.

Byakuya takes a few strides forward, either too exasperated or too tired to explain any further.

* * *

Rukia wraps herself in the colors of her profession, black and white. She tightens her hakama-himo. The lines of her face are drawn and grey. Her heart is still, withered from the tidal waves of sadness that pour down.

A stray glance tells her what she already knows: She looks like a living nightmare.

 _That's what you get for dressing in front of your mirror!_ she chastises herself, even though she knows it is force of habit that draws her to her vanity as she clothes herself.

 _Brother will be so disappointed_ , she observes, tracing the dark bags that hang under her eyes with her index fingers. It isn't as easy as wiping away soot, she thinks when her efforts get her nowhere.

 _Brother won't notice_ , the more pragmatic voice inside of her head resounds. The thought isn't nearly as comforting as she was hoping, but she imagines there is truth there. No, Brother hasn't been very communicative or responsive in their admittedly brief interactions since the news.

She catches glimpses of him in the morning. Even the warm, golden light of morning cannot touch the permafrost that has ensnared him. He looks worn. Exhaustion clouds his gray eyes, and the remote lines of his face betray his inner frustration.

Yet, despite his fatigue, Brother's emotions are tamer than what she would have expected. No tears. No chest-splitting sobs. No red-rimmed eyes. No tear-streaked cheeks.

It concerns Rukia.

_Is Brother just keeping it all in? Is he struggling under the burden of great emotional strain? Does he—_

Her heart chills at the prospect of the oncoming thought. She attempts to summon the words back before they fully form in her mind, but it is too late.

_Does he care?_

Indeed, his tiredness and frustration could be aimed a great many things: the funeral, the children, Aizen's betrayal, work, anything really.

She represses the urge to pick at the idea, to worsen it. Instead, she attempts to stuff the thought back into its black box, deep into the coils of her brain, as she pulls the door to her room back.

It doesn't fit. The possibility is just too big, just too overwhelming for her. Pandora's box just can no longer contain it. The fear has escaped, and it ushers in a raw sense of paranoia as she draws back the door to her nephews' room.

"Lady Rukia!" the wet nurse exclaims at the sight of her. "The young masters and I were not expecting you."

Rukia ignores the formality as she peers into the face of the oldest boy. Reflexively, her arms stretch out, ready to receive the boy's weight.

The nurse obliges Rukia's silent command and brings the boy to her.

Rukia cuddles the boy to her chest, and, with watchful eye, she observes that he is not properly attired for the funeral. "Are they not going?" She keeps the question as vague as possible to obscure the cruel, hidden meaning locked within.

_Are they not going to their mother's funeral?_

The boys' nurse understands the inquiry, but she is slow to respond. Surprise grips her, and, for a moment, Rukia wonders what, exactly, shocks her. Should Rukia already know the answer to this question? Has Brother intimated that he would tell Rukia the plans? Or, is the question so dumb-obvious that the nurse is amazed at Rukia's poor manners and poor knowledge of Kuchiki customs?

"The Lord has given strict orders that the children are not to attend," the nurse replies once she finds her words.

"Oh," Rukia murmurs, more so to herself than to the nurse. "How curious."

"Not curious at all. No need to bring the boys into such a mournful atmosphere when they have no idea of what is happening."

The nurse's observation is cool in its logic. Too cool for Rukia. It sounds like something Brother would say, or, likely, something Brother _did_ say. Its ruthless adherence to the rational perturbs Rukia greatly. The concerns that she thought that she had somewhat mastered begin to rise again. The dark tendrils of her thoughts creep slowly, invading her mind like a haze until her stomach flips and her heart stops its fluttering. It takes everything in her power not to cringe.

"Is that what Brother said?"

The nurse stares at Rukia, eyes wide with fear. "Forgive me, my lady, if my words have offended you. No, your Brother did not give his command with any great detail. It was not my place to speak the Lord's mind."

Rukia stares blankly at the nurse. Words swarm her mind and ping off her tongue, but her restraint is too great. The patented Kuchiki chill has trained her muscles and has shackled her tongue.

"I understand," Rukia replies after a few tense moments. She kisses the child's head and returns him to his nurse. "I will find each boy a token that once belonged to their mother. Maybe, in time, they will come to understand what has happened."

"Yes, of course, Lady Rukia." The nurse bows deeply.

The signs are there. The cracks, shallow and few now, will continue to mount until the Family has erased every semblance of Hisana, until even her memory has been staunched, like a dying flame.

Rukia will not let that happen, and she hopes that Byakuya will not either.

* * *

It is a sunny, clear day. The weather would be otherwise temperate if not for the shrill, biting wind that sporadically picks up. But, there they are, gathered in the luscious Kuchiki estate's courtyard. The colors of mourning contrast ominously against the nascent shades of autumn.

How prescient that it is the guests, themselves, who usher in the black clouds of treachery and disappointment.

And, how treacherous they have been.

With the precision of a battle line, the guest file into the courtyard. They stand according to their rank and position. The Four Families stand together with their respective envoys at their backs. Behind the Four Families stand their affiliated houses in order of social power.

The representative Captains and Vice Captains of the Gotei 13 flank the high nobles. Only representatives of Divisions One, Two, Four, Seven, Eight, and Thirteen are present, and behind them stand their seated officers.

The last of the iron triangle files next to the Gotei 13. The judges of the fledgling Central 46 Chambers stand at the front with the other wise men standing at their backs.

And, like that, the circle is complete. Dark colors, stern stares, and heavy silence. There is a static in the air. The pressure is heavy, and the wind becomes stale and prickly.

Just when the stillness had overstayed its welcome, it breaks, like a stone crashing through a pane of glass.

Byakuya represses the urge to startle, but his attention follows the commotion nevertheless. He half-expects it. It is part of the plan. Carefully laid plans, however, have a penchant for damning those that lay them, he muses to himself, eyes drifting to his fellow co-conspirators. Lord Kyōraku stands behind him and to the left. The Four Lords of the Four Noble Houses stand in a line beside him. Captain Soifon is some distance to his right, standing with her squad. Across from him is the chief judge, who fixes Byakuya with a measured glance.

In the middle stands the catalyst for the commotion: a hooded man.

Two armed members of the Onmitsukidō stand one at each of his sides. Their hands grip the tops of his arm with such force that his sleeves billow over their knuckles.

The prisoner does not resist his shackles, metal and brutal that cut into his ankles, or the guards. He stands, swaying slightly in the wind before turning to face the members of the Central 46 Chambers.

Kismet surely guides him to his intended audience for he cannot see through the thick, woolen hood that obscures his vision and conceals his identity.

"Remove the hood," announces the chief judge, not the Captain-Commander, to the Onmitsukidō.

The protocol is proper, Byakuya observes to himself, only if the Gotei 13 and the Noble Families are willing to submit to the current configuration of the Central 46 Chambers.

He waits and watches. Reflexively, his fingers unfurl at his side as if they may need to find the comfort of Senbonzakura's hilt at any second.

Lord Shihōin's gaze shifts to Byakuya's hand, which now rests on the hilt of his Zanpakutō. His shoulders twitch, betraying a small shudder. Likely with hopes to assuage his worry, the boy leader lifts his head to search his elder's face. Byakuya catches a look of concern glistening in the little lord's gaze.

Byakuya breaks away, turning his sights to the center of the circle just in time to see the unveiling of the prisoner.

"Fūma Muneyoshi from District 75 of the Southern Rukongai," the chief judge states, voice measured and crisp. "What have you to say for your actions against the Noble House of Kuchiki?"

The Onmitsukidō guards release the man, who promptly falls to his knees. Weak, but agile, he manages to keep his chest up and back straight as he stares into the crowd of judges and wise men. The man sees without seeing.

 _Blind_ , Byakuya determines upon realizing that the man responds to stimuli with an out-focus-not-quite-comprehending stare.

He wasn't blind prior to being appropriated by the Second.

"This one is only in service to others," Fūma responds, voice carrying on the breeze.

Rustling of robes betray thoughts of intrigue, bemusement, and skepticism. Words, however, are a premium for the time being. Most in attendance do not know what to make of this strange man.

"An assassin," the chief judge declares.

"A name. One of many."

"Who paid your price to level a sword against a Lady?"

"There were four men from three houses. The crests of the tsuta, the fuji, and the kiri aligned to pay my price."

"Is this true?" the Captain-Commander interjects, tipping the scales of the proceeding, as he turns to the Captain of the Second, spurning her to explain her division's investigation with an unyielding look.

Captain Soifon lifts her head, and, with eyes pinning the prisoner, she responds with a confident, "The intelligence we have gathered corroborates this reprobate's account."

Lord Shibuya, wearing the tsuta crest proudly, startles at the finality of the pronouncement. "I demand to see evidence of this!" he cries.

Lord Shibuya's cry, however, quickly elicits a flurry of similar objections from the other families, the Ichijo and the Toyotami.

Cries quickly morph into howling. Howling begets outbursts, outbursts turn into threats of fisticuffs. Before the inevitable blood bath commences, the First and Second take steps to control the crowd of angered nobles and wise men.

Several clansmen are apprehended in death grips. Others are subdued by low-level restraining spells and non-fatal hakuda.

Byakuya remains in his position as clan leader. The attack against his wife confers to him the moral high ground, and he does not want to waste it on skirmishes with traitors. Instead of entering the fray, he waits, breath heavy and bled of whatever good will he had mustered prior to entering the courtyard.

For strength or solace, he turns and glimpses a small woman cloaked in the shades and silks of a handmaiden. Her head is dutifully lowered, and her hood is pulled high, obscuring her features in the hood's shadow.

He exhales a long breath, and, as hard as he tries, he is unable to stifle the amused smile that curls the corners of his mouth up. Recklessly, his long fingers brush against hers, until she relents and releases the tension in her fists.

"There is evidence," Lord Kyōraku's pronounces in a strong, booming voice.

The chattering and howling ceases. That pause comes with a heavy expectation, and that expectation is that Lord Kyōraku's message must be as profound as it is quick because there are reputations to be ruined and blood to shed if he does not speak the correct incantation.

"Lady Hisana?" he calls, gesturing to woman who is clasping Byakuya's hand.

Without hesitation, she pulls back her hood and raises her head.

A thudding awe spreads across the crowd. Most are truly surprised. Some are truly disappointed. And, others stand with great intensity, brandishing their rage in hope that it may take form and smite her.

"I have the papers implicating at least four members of the Central Chambers in this plot." In her hand is a folder full of documents; documents that she had already turned over to the Onmitsukidō.

A collective silence steals the cries, screams, and growls as the information begins to sink in.

Silence, however, is a fickle thing. It is easily torn, shredded to pieces. And, this time is no different. Like an animal caged and cognizant of its inevitable execution, violence erupts.

Indeed, the courtyard flashes in the colors of fire. Yellow. Orange. Red.

And, the ground rumbles and trembles under their feet. Several fall. Others are thrown back from the shockwave. The instantaneous stampede fells other souls.

The devastation is as spectacular as it is unpredicted.

What some men will do to protect their dynasties. Steal. Kill. Betray. Destroy. Devastate.

What some men will do to climb the ladder to reach the illusive power at the top. Shedding their humanity for the hope of obtaining untold power.

Byakuya holds his wife hard against his chest, and he watches as the shades of violence continue to paint his courtyard in red. He did not expect this. No one did. The Four Lords. The Captain-Commander. Captain Soifon. The judges.

To choose death over ambition deferred demonstrates a fundamental misunderstanding of proper gamesmanship.

Hisana elevates her head and stares into her husband's face. Rarely does he wear his disgust so clearly on display, but in the fiery aftermath of firebombing their estate, the lines of his face are tense and deep.

"Come, milord," she murmurs, hoping her voice will nudge his thoughts to other, better places.

His gaze turns to her, and he gives her a soft kiss on her head. "Safety, milady," he whispers.

She cracks a gentle smile. "Safety is in the arms of my Lord," she says, half in earnest and half in jest.

A small amused grin thins his lips. He doesn't believe her, or, rather, he doesn't trust his skills, and Byakuya is not a humble man, but he perceives any risk, no matter how small, too great of an exposure for his wife.

Graceful and tender, he sweeps her into his arms, but before he can dart forward, the circle of drawn swords stops him short.

 _Onmitsukidō_.

And, where there are Onmitsukidō there is Captain Soifon. This time is no different.

"Captain Kuchiki, we are under orders by the Gotei 13 and the Central 46 Chambers to apprehend your wife."

Byakuya is of half a mind to refuse and take up arms against the Second's Captain.

"It appears the Central 46 is in the midst of an internal power struggle and incapable of effectuating orders, and the Gotei 13 lacks jurisdiction," Byakuya reasoning with some measure of calm.

"This is not a debate, Captain Kuchiki. It is an order. Lady Kuchiki possesses vital information relating to certain, crucial technology. We are under order to rendition Lady Kuchiki."

"Members of the nobility are immune to such unnecessary-"

"Since Aizen's treason, the Captain-Commander has called for extraordinary wartime measures. As you are aware, noble immunity may be pierced under these circumstances. Surrender Lady Kuchiki."

Before Byakuya can further articulate the many reasons _why he was not going to obey this order_ , Hisana stops his thoughts with a quiet, "Very well. However, I want it to go on record that I am obliging this order with the utmost cooperation."

Hisana slips from his arms, and Byakuya watches, helpless.

"I want certain security, Captain," Hisana continues, voice gentle but forceful.

When Captain Soifon does not protest this, Hisana continues. "I have two children and a husband. I want the ability to visit with my family on a regular basis, and I require an end date to this. In exchange, I will do whatever you require of me."


End file.
